Mountaintown Creek Trail ride

I wonder if I even like mountain biking. I express this to my friend Chris as we are ascending, on mountain bikes, something partway between a trail and a fire road in the north Georgia mountains.

It’s true that I like bikes, and I feel better when I am riding them than when I’m not, and riding mountain bikes is a lot better than being on a trainer or rollers, but there is a certain sense of fun that is missing for me with mountain bikes.

And yet, I keep riding mine.

We exit the trees onto what is without a doubt a fire road. Ahead the road becomes a big patch of sky, which typically means that you’re done climbing for a while and there might be a view ahead.

The patch grows. There will be a view.

“This will be good,” I say.

“Yep” Chris agrees.

It’s good. Despite overcast skies, we can see for many miles across valleys and over ridges. It’s real-deal purple mountain majesty, like in the song.

Chris studies his GPS. We’ve climbed 1400 feet of the projected 6000 for the day. I don’t think that can be right. 6000 feet is a lot.

We start rolling again and there’s a lot of fire road to climb. We speculate on why the state builds these roads, but aren’t well versed in the matter.

After much slow uphill travel and a few more stops to eat calorie-rich paste from tiny packets, we arrive at the place where Chris fell off his bike the last time he was here. He broke his collarbone and had to be driven to a hospital in a car.

I consider how much an injury like that might hurt as we’re descending on the gravel fire roads. My bike computer reads 25mph. It’s nothing for a road bike, but on loose gravel it can be tricky. I try to keep my speed low, especially since it is cold on top of this mountain and going fast means more wind and more feeling cold.

We climb some more. At around the two hour mark we come to an overlook. The view is even better than the one before. I’m cold, hungry, down to my last goo packet, and getting to that point of tiredness where I’m just annoyed.

Amusement is in short supply.

I pull out my phone and read over the twitter updates. Lance Armstrong just went to Yoga. Kate is drinking. Julie is too.

Chris wants to know what I’m “Twattin’ over there”.

We’re rolling again, and finally make it to the start of the mythical trail we’re here to ride. It’s the whole reason we climbed all these fire roads to begin with. I’m cold and skeptical, but eff it. This Mountaintown Creek Trail is supposed to be the shit.

We start down and it really is pretty awesome. It’s wide and fast, and it has ridges made to keep the road from washing out every few yards. The ridges serve as pretty good jumps. I like jumps. I’m in the air a lot.

We are following a stream down the mountain, and soon begin to crisscross over it again and again. I like splashing through streams despite the cold.

On the way through one, my front tire sinks deep into some mud and I go over hard into the stream. I crack my right knee really good on a rock. I’m afraid it will be broken and I’ll have to hop out of the mountains dragging my bike, but it’s just cut and banged up, thankfully. I press my kneecap from all directions and it appears to still be attached.

Lest it should decide to seize up or hurt more, I give Chris the go ahead and we’re off. From here, the trail gets progressively less fun to ride, although beautiful.

Soon we pass a waterfall and I stop to take a photo. Chris is some way down the trail, but listening, as it turns out, to see if he can hear my disc brakes singing and signifying that I am ok and on my bike. I catch up to him again, and we continue to descend.

There is a lot of skill to riding a mountain bike down a gravel road, and even more required to ride it town a ridiculously steep mountain trail that is covered in softball-sized rocks… especially when those, in turn, are obscured by a layer of fallen leaves. The upshot of all this is that you can’t really know for sure where your bike will be at any given moment, despite the fact that you’re attached to it at the feet. Hitting the brakes only serves to start a skid, which means even less control for you, the rider.

The ride refused to end. Soon we are carrying our bikes over fallen log after fallen log, and slogging through mud and over stream crossings. I am talking a lot about the cheeseburger I intend to eat when we are finally done.

The pretty girls back in the city are drinking liquor drinks and laughing at the TV and I’m cold and hungry and bleeding.

During one stream crossing I see a fresh boot print in the mud. This is a good sign. I figure if someone walked in this far we must be close.

Now Chris has heard a car in the distance.

Sure enough, we are off the trail and onto a last hurrah of climbing fire roads back to the car. I borrow some first aid items from Chris, tear off some hanging pieces of skin, and clean my cuts up.

Alcohol, while excellent as a component of beer, is a real rude bitch when its in your cuts.

We pack the car and head off to find my cheeseburger and I’m still not sure why I keep riding mountain bikes.